


Stella Matutina

by honngyu



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, Knifeplay, M/M, very mild tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2016-04-04
Packaged: 2018-05-29 11:51:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6373642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honngyu/pseuds/honngyu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"... he held on // his midnight search, where soonest he might finde // the Serpent: him fast sleeping soon he found ..."</p><p>Jehan experiences a demoniac encounter. His ardent soul is more than willing to experience equally intense adventures by the bloodied hand of a stranger. It's an association that would delight Chaos itself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dawn

**Author's Note:**

> Alternatively called: "How to flirt with your crush, a lesson by Jean Prouvaire: Compare him to Satan himself."

  **T** he first time Jehan sees him, he feels appalled by the apparition of that captivating stranger who moved slyly among the streets, followed by three men who were nothing like him in appearance. With black hair, delicate factions and an angel-like body, his dark aura mesmerized the young poet, bringing back to life Milton’s words:

> **“** _His count'nance, as the Morning Starr that guides_
> 
> _The starrie flock, allur'd them..._ **”**

During the early dawn, that handsome figure who glowed like the morning star itself vanished with his entourage— too soon, Jehan lamented.

* * *

Enjolras’ words flew right over his head. Jehan was faraway, his mind too busy creating verses about the scene he witnessed during the morning. On a sheet of paper his hand sketched the face of his newfound muse, trying to recreate the unholy beauty capable of hypnotize even the strongest spirit. Everyone could notice that Jehan wasn't with them, and even if this wasn’t particularly strange from time to time, this intense mood did catch someone else’s attention.

\- What do you have there?

Courfeyrac’s voice woke him from his slumber. The poet raised his head, finding his fellow Amis smiling at him and waiting with pure curiosity for an answer; he also noticed that Enjolras’ speech was over and everyone resumed to their own activities.

\- It’s nothing. Just a stranger I saw in the streets.

\- Oh, of course, - Courfeyrac put his arm around him, a friendly gesture that he was more than used to – the curse of falling love with random strangers, at random places and at random moments. Truly material of tragedies.

\- “Falling in love” isn’t exactly the choice of words I prefer.

\- Sure, you are the poet here. But hey, be careful, you don’t want to incite Enjolras’ disgruntled look when he finds out you are not paying attention due to being lovestruck. – His friend laughed and he couldn’t help but laugh with him too.

* * *

 

Jehan didn’t see him again the next days. And even if it was disappointing, it wasn’t something that could bring down his spirits easily, after all, that certainly wasn’t the first time he had felt such a spontaneous interest for a stranger. Sensitive for beauty as he was, the poet was prone to “ _fall in love_ ” with random strangers, as Courfeyrac would say.

Different thoughts clouded his mind during the fifth night. After a meeting with the Amis in which various topics of national importance were discussed, Jehan walked out of the café and made his way home. But just some blocks away from the Musain trouble was waiting for him, shaped in the form of a fallen angel.

Kind of literally. He was getting kicked out of a place that emanated light and loud noises of men laughing and babbling. A man that seemed considerably larger than him shouted a warning and closed the door with a thunderous noise, leaving the stranger abandoned in the dark and standing up with some difficulty. He was hurt.

Without thinking it twice, Jehan advanced towards him and immediately noticed his bleeding nose. The sight of such a pretty, exquisite face tainted with blood arouse feelings in him that until that moment remained asleep, resting in the depths of his heart (and perhaps they should have stayed that way)—Neither said a word, Jehan helped him to stand up while offering a handkerchief, the stranger cleaned his face and muttered “thank you” with a glimpse of broken pride in his voice.

\- Are you okay? What happened there?

\- None of your business.

The proximity between them helped Jehan to notice a couple of important details: First, he clearly wasn’t older than him (youthfulness sparkled in his eyes), and second, his clothes were of a fanciness that could even compete with Courfeyrac’s dandy ways. The young man fixed his cravat and nothing else was said. He was gone, leading his steps into the darkness of the streets, his handsome figure was soon lost among the obscurity.

* * *

 

Jehan would recall this encounter during the entire day that preceded it. His absent mind was even more obvious to his friends during the meeting, but the poet made sure to tell them that it was nothing to be worried of, and he wasn’t lying—At least for that moment.

Once the meeting was over he stayed some minutes more in the café, politely rejecting Courfeyrac and Combeferre’s offer to go home with them, explaining that he wanted some solitude to work on his poetry. This wasn’t a lie either, as soon as the meeting was over, Jehan started to write down some new verses and correcting the ones he had written days ago. But his apparent need for loneliness due to creative matters hid a motive he wasn’t willing to share with his friends for now: He would await until the same hour he encountered his stranger in that street, in hopes to see him again.

But this procedure wasn’t necessary, not how Jehan planned it: Once the poet left the café, a hand took him by his arm and led him towards an alley. Startled, Jehan was about to fight back whoever dared to mess with him, but soon surprise coloured his expression: In front of him and still gripping his arm, his prince materialized out of the darkness.

\- What do you want?

\- I have something that belongs to you. – He said in a soft voice, slowly letting go of his arm and placing his hand inside his vest—Jehan watched every movement with great attention, despite the innate charm that the stranger emanated, he wasn’t willing to let down his guard.

Soon enough he was handing him the handkerchief (dirty with _his blood_ ). A smirk graced his face, and he was about to disappear again when Jehan clutched the sleeve of his black coat. Now it was his turn to feel surprise.

\- Wait! At least I have to know your name.

\- …Montparnasse. And you are—?

\- Jean. Jean Prouvaire.

Montparnasse nodded and gave one last look at Jehan before disappearing just like he had done the night before.

The young poet felt as if Montparnasse wanted to mock him with that encounter, and yet he couldn’t help but tighten the grasp of the fabric, hopelessly trying to feel the dried blood. After all, not everyone got the chance to hold a murderer’s blood in their own hands.

But despite his _Luciferian_ halo, this was something that Jehan wasn’t aware of. Yet.


	2. Dusk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "- I wonder— Will I find verses if I open your heart?
> 
> \- Perhaps. But I can’t guarantee they will be for you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ship is sponsored by Lana del Rey entire discography.
> 
> Honestly these two need to find their chill....anyway, reviews, comments, etc are always appreciated, enjoy!

  **D** uring the next days, Montparnasse prowled around the Musain in search of his prey—a bird of soft voice and feathers tainted with bright colours.

(And that was no exaggeration. The first time Montparnasse encountered that peculiar young man he immediately noticed the odd blend of the colours of his attire. It made him _cringe_.)

But Prouvaire’s bad taste in clothing was not enough to discourage the criminal’s growing interest for him. Montparnasse remembered very clearly the tenderness of his touch when he assisted him after being beaten up, the way his voice subtly trembled when asking for his name, and the hidden ferocity that sparkled in his attitude when he sensed a threat. All those aspects tempted Montparnasse— _begging_ to be corrupted, and that was something he could simply not resist.

And he certainly didn’t want to resist. It seemed like a nice way to pass the time.

Their routine was simple. They would wait until dark to take walks that would lead them from the Place Saint-Michel to the Sainte-Chapelle (never daring to place a step inside the royal chapel), crossing the left bank of the Seine, letting the cold air of the Parisian night brush their cheeks, while Jean—Jehan (as Montparnasse learnt he liked to be called) would recite him some poems by heart. He had to admit it was pleasant to enjoy beauty in things that were not mirrors.

But this apparent innocent behaviour hid the real nature of the relationship that was seeding between them. One night, both men stopped in the middle of the Pont Saint-Michel and stared at the river, soon enough, Jehan started to tell him a story about a young man who had died for love, the trigger was pulled by his own hand and a bullet went through his head. Montparnasse paid attention to the tale, not really understanding why would someone end their life for love, it was almost absurd, he thought while playing with a knife between his fingers.

Jehan’s narration ended and silence reigned. His sight, Montparnasse noticed, was now completely focused on the shining weapon dancing in his hands.

\- Have you ever hurt someone with that?

The criminal, faking disinterest, nodded as a response.

\- Have you ever killed someone?

This time Montparnasse had to look at him. The young poet’s eyes were fixed on his own, expectantly waiting for an answer he already knew—how? He hoped it was pure intuition. Slowly and still holding the knife, he got closer to Jehan and neither of them broke eye contact, not even when the sharp weapon was gently pressed against Jehan’s stomach, not enough to break the fabric of his clothes but enough to make him feel the cutting edge threatening his flesh. Nothing less, nothing more.

The wind caressed their skins and the sound of the Seine running beneath them was the only accompaniment for the scene, the turbulent rhythm of the river was as intense as Jehan’s heart beating.

\- You wouldn’t betray me, wouldn’t you?

But he did not look away.

\- So you _are_ a murderer.

Those words definitely did not weight for Montparnasse too much. He nodded again, a bit frustrated by the failure of his intimidation tactic. Leading his look to the weapon, the young man mumbled: – That’s not how I call it. – Another pause. The knife made its way through Jehan’s bright blue vest, finding his chest, his neck, moving up his chin and staying there for some seconds. And the poet did not move.

Truth was, Montparnasse wasn’t exactly wanting to hurt him, not at all, he only wanted to know how far he could go until Jehan showed any sign of fear. If anything, he appeared tense.

\- Is that what you do for a living?

The knife moved once again to place its blade on Jehan’s burning cheek, making him shiver due to the contrast of his warm and skin and the coldness of the metal.

\- Kind of. – The poet closed his eyes, sighing. Montparnasse was completely transfixed. - I wonder— Will I find verses if I open your heart?

\- Perhaps. But I can’t guarantee they will be for you.

Even with a sharp knife on the verge of scarring his pretty face, Jehan managed to turn the tables and now it was _him_ who played with the other. It took him a moment, but Montparnasse did realize this: The soft spoken poet with words on his lips just as pretty as his face was definitely not afraid of him.

He could have easily stabbed him and finish everything. Cut his neck, take everything of value he carried (if there was something he could steal) and just leave—but it was easy and pointless and too late for that. Montparnasse took the knife away and saved it inside his coat once again, resigned—he had underestimated Jehan, and now he could only wonder what could possibly make him show the fear he thought he could inspire.

\- I was expecting another reaction from you after learning what I actually do.

Jehan looked away. – I perceived it the first time I saw you. You wear the devil like one of your coats. - That wasn’t exactly a compliment, but Montparnasse could only smirk after hearing those words. – I’m not going to betray you, if that’s what you are wondering.

\- I knew you wouldn't. You are just too fond of me.

His gloved hand brushed Jehan’s cheek with an impossible gentleness for someone like him. The poet blushed, blossoming under his touch.

\- I have to go.

\- So soon? Now that there are no secrets between us, the night can finally start.

Their glances found each other again and Montparnasse felt some kind of vulnerability he never allowed himself to feel. It was _frustrating_ but also liberating, somehow.

- _I have to go._ \- The poet repeated, this time louder and with a slight fierceness, it made Montparnasse retreat his hand, a bit startled by his reaction.

\- Alright, then goodnight to you.

\- Goodnight, Montparnasse.

He saw him disappear among the mist, at the other side of the bridge. Darkness reigned once again, and Montparnasse feared that that might have been the last time he saw Prouvaire.

**Author's Note:**

> it's been years since I don't write something for the Les Mis fandom and months since I don't write in english, so there is a high possibility that this contains some mistakes, I apologize! please feel free to correct me, reviews are always well received, as well as kudos and any other comment you wish to make <3
> 
> I spent this Holy Week ™ reading some excerpts of Milton's Paradise Lost and feeling a bit R-omantic (listen i'm a nerd for the Romantics), so that inspired me to write this piece that was supposed to be a drabble omg...anyway thank you for reading!


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